


Christmas Oneshots

by fusrodie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusrodie/pseuds/fusrodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots written as Christmas gifts for some lovely people over at <a href="http://fus-ro-die.tumblr.com">my Tumblr.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Would you care to dance?

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to do something different this Christmas. That something different meaning, I wrote oneshots for around half a dozen people whom I follow on Tumblr. Pairings and tags will be updated accordingly as I post them.
> 
> [First one](http://fus-ro-die.tumblr.com/post/135919616078/would-you-care-to-dance) was written for [princessstabbity](http://princessstabbity.tumblr.com), featuring Cullen and her Warden, Solona Amell.

Some days he would regret, bitterly so, the day Cassandra Pentaghast invited him to join the Inquisition. It was an offer he could not refuse, an opportunity he could not pass, and though he had imagined taking up the mantle of Commander of Forces would be hard, his wildest dreams had not come close enough to reality. He had imagined impossible odds, difficult decisions. Rallying soldiers in the wake of losing battles, sending them into danger for the cause; witnessing the horrors or war, wielding his sword until he could no longer, and coping with whatever pain came with it. Much of it had come and much of it had passed, and he could not have anticipated everything else it would entail.

He would never understand how Josephine and Leliana could stand it, the nobles and partying, the overly complicated greetings and the silly cutlery for every different situation. He had been offered wine four times already, and each time the serving girl would announce it as if the wine was important enough to be given titles, though it all looked the same to him. Indistinguishable red liquid poured into too-expensive glasses, cheese cut into too-small pieces, masks covered in gold and shiny gems and dresses in colors too bright for somber events, that is what he would remember of Halamshiral, and he hoped it would be no more than that from then on, a memory.

“Commander?” the question caught him by surprise, a silver mask coming into view, a pair of brown eyes visible through the slits. He did not know the woman addressing him, just like he did not know all others who had come to pester him with questions, but it did not keep them from pressing on. It was overwhelming at times, the noisy ballroom, puffy dresses taking too much space, accessories almost hitting him in the eye, men and women touching and grabbing and pretending nothing had happened. Few times before had he felt so uncomfortable; the jacket hugged his ribs too tightly, the pauldrons made him feel ridiculous, and the collar was a tiny bit of fabric away from strangling him right then and there. He had refused drink and food, sweet looking pastries brought to him by fawning admirers, his appetite long gone. All night he stood there, waiting for his orders, speaking only when asked questions, scanning the room for anything that would bring him comfort, a friendly face to save him. “You must dance with me, Commander! You cannot stand about all evening!” Maker but if it was a challenge, he would gladly take it.

He did not answer this time, though he had the first half a dozen times she had asked. The smile she gave him was anything but innocent, lopsided, wicked, and again he felt as if a dance was not all she asked for. A gloved hand covered a snicker and then extended towards him as an offer, long fingers close to touching the fabric of his finery, waiting, and the woman hadn’t budged an inch even after he took a step back.

“A most generous offer,” he managed to say, confident but cornered, when her smile dared to become a scowl, and he gave her a small, bright one in return, like Josephine had told him to. “I’m afraid I do not know how to dance, madam. I would not want to embarrass a lady in front of the Empress.” It was enough to dissuade her, a shy glance spared towards Celene, and Cullen knew she would be back as soon as she walked away.

Cullen had never been to a ball before; Templars did not partake in such events, and prancing about holding another close was never part of his training. He spent more time wearing a suit of armor than clothes, holding a sword rather than a goblet, quiet and vigilant instead of chatty and open. He had never been good at telling lies, but this one had been surprisingly easy. He still remembered Josephine’s words, soft hands moving his calloused ones further down, one step, two, left, right, “grace and posture, Commander.” She had been a most affable teacher, patient and kind, not breathing a word about their late night classes, encouraging him to work on his clumsy footwork. Josephine knew full well what he intended, why he had gone through the trouble of learning how to dance, and encouraged him earnestly,  shaky hands smoothing wrinkles on his jacket and fixing his hair before they entered the palace. She seemed just as nervous as he felt, excited perhaps, watching him intently every time she passed by and he could not gather his courage. What if he never had another opportunity to ask?

The thought has him walking towards the balcony, empty if not for her, and he stands in the threshold for a moment to try and slow his racing heart. Her hands grasp the rail with too much force, shoulders slumped and head down, and he wonders if it is anger or pain she feels. The voices behind him are nothing but background noise, unimportant, forgotten, Cullen takes another step and she quickly turns to face him, brows furrowed and lips pressed together.

“Oh, hello, Cullen,” she breathes, and he can hear the relief in her voice. “I… Needed a moment,” Solona is well aware there is no need for explanations, certainly not for him, but that had never stopped her before. “Is there something you need?” she smiles, bright and beautiful, amber eyes softening as she settles into a more comfortable stance, tucks her short hair behind her ears. The two of them are always like this, close but not quite, all blushes and stuttering when they are together. He reaches for the pommel of his sword but finds nothing, no comfort to be had in the solid shape of the metal in his hands. Suddenly he feels like the silly boy again, the young Templar who felt vulnerable and yet safe around her, butterflies in his stomach, the sight of her something so beautiful words seemed to elude him.

But it was hard to picture it, the messy haired girl wearing plain robes, clutching a book as she hid in the library late at night, sometimes to read in silence, sometimes to hear the rain hitting the stones and dripping down windows. Because she had become a woman, a hero, bold and powerful. He had found he no longer loved the girl, but the woman would never leave his thoughts, her image never failed to make him smile, and he hoped she liked the Commander better than the Knight. He hoped she felt it, the rush whenever their eyes met, the shivers when they touched.

“No– I mean, yes. There is something I would like to ask you, now that everything is quiet again.” She waits for further explanation, and he looks away, because he fears he will lose track of what needs to be said, because he is afraid his eyes will show her how much he cares, and he will see it too, in the way she looks at him, his words would catch in his throat and there would be no turning back. “I wondered if– I understand if you-” he takes a deep breath and a step back, bends like he practiced so many times alone in his office, holds out his hand, his smile mirroring hers. “Would you care for a dance?”

He is sure Josephine watches from afar, because the music starts again as soon as he finishes his sentence. Solona is laughing when she takes his hand, the other sliding through his chest until it settles on his shoulder, and he cannot believe he had waited so long to have her this close. Nothing else matters after they take the first step.

The two of them notice it’s all over a moment too late, and neither seems to want to let the other go. He catches a flash of red hair spying behind stained glass, and it feels as if the spell has been broken, his hand leaves the dip of her waist, an apology on the tip of his tongue. She turns to see what had caught his attention, but Solona doesn’t seem to care, entwines their fingers, cups his face, brushes her thumb over his cheekbone. He does not stop to think about what he is doing as he bends down to capture her lips, and soon her hands are in his hair and his almost catch on the frilly lace of her dress.

Ten years ago, he had dreamed of this moment. But it was different, he supposed; back then, there were no violins, no people spying, and certainly no intrigue and assassination plots. It also did not involve two military commanders, two people who had suffered, had their hearts broken, and had found each other again and fallen in love one more time. It was a silly crush then, idle fantasies of a boy who knew nothing of life and much less of love, who believed in forever and had dreams of running away, who thought they would overcome whatever obstacle crossed their paths. He had lost that innocence long ago, lived each day knowing tomorrow made no promises. Maybe there would not be a beautiful home full of children in their path, no quiet moments and lazy mornings; she would not cling to him and whisper sweet nothings, and maybe he would not bring her pretty flowers and confess his love through letters, but whatever it was the future held - Maker, he would take it.

Cullen knows proper thanks to Josephine are in order, the events of Halamshiral forgotten if only for tonight. He could think of nothing better than this, having her so close, soft lips against his, kissing wherever she could reach when they parted, a content sigh escaping him when she found a tender spot on his neck. He could think of nothing better than this when he cradles her in his arms, closes his eyes and tries to commit this all to memory, her warmth, her scent, her featherlight touch. The way she looks at him, honest and loving, a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes, makes it all worth it.


	2. Giggles and Pink Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solavellan drabble for [ziathal](http://ziathal.tumblr.com)!

Sometimes he wished to be more like her. Sometimes he wished to forget who and what he was, the burdens placed squarely on his shoulders, forget the scheming and maneuvering, the things he had done and the things he would do. Sometimes he wished to be more like her, strong and powerful but also bright and cheerful, fierce in battle but sweet in demeanor. He would never tire of watching her, so oblivious at times, dimples on her cheeks and stars in her eyes. Competent, serious Inquisitor, both a fighter and a diplomat, respected as a leader and feared as an enemy. Calm, playful Inquisitor, who always seemed to find the time to comfort and help all others, who tried her best to understand before passing judgement. **  
**

He had promised her he would try, try to smile and giggle, try to let himself go at least for a few moments and, should he feel curved lips and loud laughter did not suit him, she would not love him any less. He had promised, drowsy and close to bursting with happiness at her passionate kissing, because there was nothing he would deny her then. Not unlike today, when she had brought him out of blissful dreaming with loving kisses, invited him for a walk in the woods right after breakfast. He had agreed right away, swayed by her messy hair and puffy eyes.

Traipsing through the Ferelden Hinterlands felt somewhat familiar, the smell of fresh grass all around him, twigs snapping under his bare feet, sunlight finding its way through the leaves. Having her close, fingers intertwined, her thumb caressing the back of his hand, that is what he would remember, those were the memories he would cherish. It warmed his heart to see her like this, comfortable where others would feel unsafe, an almost childish energy about her as she bent to pick flowers and ran her fingers over tree barks.

His problems seem distant now, because she shines much brighter, her touch something so unique his dreams would never compare. His dreams would never have him notice the small things she enjoyed the most; birds singing shortly after dawn, the drawn patterns on fallen leaves, how the wind blew humid and pleasant before a storm came. His dreams would never give him the pleasure of walking along the sea shore, sand and gravel between his toes, water bathing his feet up to his ankles, his lover humming a song taught to her by her people. There were no deserts and no nights when he slept in the nude, no waterfalls and silly dances under the moonlight. The Fade feels like home, it feels simple, he sees and listens and learns, uncovers truths and covers up lies. But she is real, solid, warm, far more complicated than he had imagined. She is beautiful, interesting, almost infuriatingly so, because seeing and listening leads him through paths he knows little about. Instead he feels, plays it by ear and hopes his touches would convey what his words could not.

Her sigh brings him out of his daydreams, curious eyes trying to read his expression. He looks resolute, almost somber, she says, and his furrowing seems to amuse her. Long fingers trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, as if she is committing his features to memory. She inches forward to kiss the tip of his nose, tucks a pink flower behind his ear. Her expression changes suddenly, brows knit together, a sound comes from deep within her throat and he fears his seriousness has ruined their peace. Her lips tremble and she does her best not to, but an initial, ungraceful snicker leads her to a fit of giggles, tears in her eyes as she breaks away to roll onto her back. She mutters between breaths, he discerns the words _pretty_ and _vhenan_ , and this time he is the one chuckling. Soon his laughter echoes her own, loud and senseless, eyes watering as his body bends unconsciously, and he cannot remember how long it had been since the last time he had allowed himself such a foolish moment. He enjoyed the silence and her presence, the quiet times they spent whenever they were together, but he had found the noise to be just as good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I've never written Solas. I've never even played the romance route all the way. I intend to, but I can't seem to play Inquisition for more than five minutes nowadays. That means I am totally open for criticism - I have this very real fear I mischaracterized Solas at some point.


	3. Lazy Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Cullen x Amell for the lovely galagraphia! Based on some of her amazing art, [here](http://galagraphia.tumblr.com/post/113190799973/galagraphia-rhia-wants-a-haircut-because-she), [here](http://galagraphia.tumblr.com/post/126561052228/maybe-i-love-cullens-hair-too-much-xd-inspired) and [here](http://galagraphia.tumblr.com/post/130293635363/there-are-things-they-will-never-tell-each-other), featuring her Amell, Rhiamon, and our Commander.

He could still feel it, when he closed his eyes. He could not help but smile whenever he did, too much joy for such an early hour, so much that it never failed to make him blush. He can still feel it, fingers brushing against his skin, up his arms, caressing his shoulders, making their way down his chest and dipping lower. Affection is what he feels with every touch, a sort of devotion he hadn’t known until their paths crossed again, and at times like these he never wants to let her go. Desire comes right after, has him clutching his bedsheets with every kiss, gasping with every stroke, humming with every swirl of her tongue. He can recall every detail, her skin under his fingertips, her thighs pressing against his sides; how intimate it felt to hold her close, to leave a trail of kisses on her collarbone and up her neck, nibble on her earlobe and have her breathing hot against him, to capture her lips and silence her moans when she rolls her hips and arches her back.

Properly folded clothes piled on top of his newly bought dresser tell the story of how they had not succumbed to uncontrollable passion, that this had not been the first time. The nail markings on his arse tell the story of how she clung onto him, but the sensual, almost obscene way she’d said his name was another, for his ears only, a sound he loved to hear each and every night.

He would sometimes wonder, in the middle of the night, staring at his ceiling after both were sated, or on mornings like this one, when he had awakened to an empty bed, how he could have lived so long without this, without her. Cullen had dreamed of it, once, of finding a love so perfect it would fix what was broken, give him hope and a future, a romance come out of the books Cassandra fawned over. But he had discovered those books spoke nothing of such love, nothing of wild tales and happy endings. He had discovered Rhiamon could not fix him, because he was never broken, did not complete him, for he had always been whole, and there was no magic to what he felt; despite it not being the perfect romance he once imagined, he could not think of anything better. Her touch did not make his pain disappear, and her words did not lull him to sleep, but she was there when the nightmares woke him up at night, when he stopped being _Commander_ and wanted simply to be _Cullen_. At times he felt there was not much he could give her, no promises of a perfect future and eternal passion. But he had found he could give her what she had given him: acceptance, love, comfort. They had found a place in the world - and being together felt like home.

“Good morning, Cullen,” she greeted, standing in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her hair, wearing nothing but the deep red undergarments he loved so much. “Looks like someone had an amazing night.” He sits up only to hear her chuckle, lighthearted, happy. He catches his reflection then, laughs with her. He would not mind looking so disheveled every morning, hair sticking up and outwards in loose curls, half of his face looking like wrinkled paper for sleeping on his belly most of the night, if it would make her smile at him like that. “I take it you had a good night’s sleep?” There is no mockery on her voice this time, but an undertone of worry as she kneels on the mattress and sits on her heels, reaching out to brush a stray curl away from his face.

“I am fine. Truly.” He holds her wrist in place, kisses the palm cupping his jaw, caresses the back of her hand with his thumb. Sleep and his lover’s presence had done him some good, it seemed, and the headaches that plagued him yesterday were but a memory. Still, she would worry for a few more hours, ask him about it throughout the day, prepare tea made out of elfroot leaves if his answer was positive. His episodes were not as strong nor as frequent now, though verging on unbearable at times, and it had become easier to fight it. He had come far. He had someone who loved him and believed in his recovery. He had endured much, and would continue to do so. “You look beautiful, Rhia,” he mumbled before he could stop himself, hands reaching up to tuck a strand of white hair behind her ear. “I’m surprised you haven’t had your hair cut yet.” He remembers, back in the Tower, young Rhiamon Amell going to and fro, short brown hair, robes never too loose or too tight, too busy for what was pretty but not practical.

“Oh, I’ve thought about it,” she twirls a lock around her finger, says something about asking Sera to do it for her. “It’s starting to get in the way.”

“Have you tried braiding it?” He offers as an offhand comment, but she seems to consider it.

“I may have many talents, my dear Cullen,” Rhiamon gives an air of integrity to her words, but he knows nothing good and Andrastian can come out of it. One of her hands travels from his knee upward, settling on his inner thigh and giving it a squeeze. “As you well know. However,” her wicked smile is replaced by a playful one when she continues, “that is not one of them.”

She is preparing to leave the bed and get dressed for the day when he calls her attention, pats the spot in front of him to beckon her over. “Let me do it for you.” She looks skeptical but does not protest, sits between his parted legs and waits patiently for him to get to work. His fingers move as if by their own volition, neatly separating sections of her hair, hooking under one strand and then another. It reminds him of easier times, free of world-threatening enemies and massive armies. A time when his biggest concern was washing up for dinner in time so his mother would not scold him, to keep Branson away from his toys and Mia from blaming him for her mischiefs. It was his eldest sister who had taught him how to braid, poor Rosalie had served as an unwilling subject, and the first time had been so terrible even his mother had laughed. He had mastered it in no time, however, and secretly enjoyed listening to little Rosalie’s singing when big brother agreed to do her hair.

“I had no idea Templars knew how to braid,” Rhiamon’s voice brought him out of his daydream, and though she intended to taunt him, her words had come out so loving he could not help but chuckle. “You’ve just gotten ten times more precious, you know.” She rubs his left thigh absentmindedly, not bothering to disguise her dreamy smile.

“I have two sisters.” Is all he says as an explanation, much too focused on bringing one strand on top of another.

“Maybe one day you will braid our daughter’s hair.” She says, but what began as a joke ended as a sigh, a muttered confession that should have remained a secret, and Rhiamon remains quiet for far too long after that. Cullen can hear her fidgeting, out of his field of vision, and he knows he needs to say something before she gets a wrong impression. But the image is too strong to ignore, a little girl with his curls and her brown hair, tiny hands tugging at his sleeves, asking him for help, stories before she goes to sleep and kisses to keep bad dreams away. Rhiamon slowly turns to read his expression, and his smile seems to catch her by surprise, as well as the brief moment their lips touch when he leans forward.

“I would like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, I know. I have fics to update. Stuff to write. Life had been eating me alive for the past two months and I couldn't really sit down and get it all out, but I still missed writing, so I thought yeah well why not? Not to mention the people I wrote for are amazing and deserve so much more than this. I hope they like it!


End file.
